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Ignoring him, I walked back out of the seats and headed to our locker room. I’d left my bag here, and while I’d been planning to get it tomorrow, I was glad I’d forgotten it now. After unzipping the large duffel bag, I shoved my hockey skates out of the way and grabbed my figure skates. They were different from the hockey blades because they were longer, flatter, and had toe picks and a tail. I still liked to work on jumps occasionally after practice, which was another reason I knew Hank well. I always made sure to have the figure skates with me, too.
I sat on the bench near my locker and took off my boots and socks. I used the padded socks from my bag, then slid on the figure skates before walking my way back toward the rink.
Atlas was exactly where I’d left him, a frown marring his forehead as I opened the door in the boards, ditched my blade guards, and then slid onto the ice.
I spun, using the toe picks to dig into the surface, and grinned up at him. “Ready to see some tricks?”
His face transformed from confused to amused. His mouth quirked and he leaned back in his seat, crossing his leg over his knee. He opened his arms. “Entertain me.”
I held in my laughter and skated backward. It had been a few weeks since I’d done any figure skating, but they weren’t skills I could lose easily. Oh, I bet my ass I wouldn’t be as perfect as I used to be, but a guy like Atlas wouldn’t see that. He knew jack shit about the jumps and the landings.
I began with a toe loop, an easy jump that was made for beginners. It was a simple three-turn that led from a tap of the toe pick into the ice before launching into the air and landing back on my skates. I finished by gliding backward, then stopped to grin at Atlas.
He yawned dramatically.
I snorted. “I’d like to see you do that.”
He waved his hand, mouth curling teasingly. “Next.”
I knew he was egging me on, but the dismissal had me eager to prove my skills. So, I went into the full routine that I’d been learning since I was thirteen. I sailed across the ice like it was air and slid into every jump with ease. The skills I performed included salchow jumps, loops, lutzes, and axel jumps. I was on fire. I finished with my arms out and panted harsh breaths. It took me a moment to remember that the only person I was performing for was Atlas—not an entire crowd.
He was standing, eyes wide, and when he realized I was done, a large smile grew on his face. He actually clapped, then shook his hand, which must’ve hurt. It was a new and exciting reaction from him that had my heart racing faster than any routine could make it. Warmth spread through my chest as I glided across the ice to meet him at the door.
“You’re really good,” he admitted, and something akin to desire smacked me in the gut. I’d never imagined I would get turned on by the Frost Son confessing that I was good at figure skating, but here we were, my cock growing hard and a wave of need sweeping through me.
“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered.
He smirked. “Yeah. I still want to eat your ass, which looked fucking amazing during those jumps, by the way.”
He was going to kill me with his words, and at this stage, I would thank him for it. I was an idiot.
15
ATLAS
I bitmy lip while my foot jiggled.
Fuck, I had to do this, or I could end up back in the hospital. It didn’t matter how much I didn’t want to fucking do it. Growling, I sat up in my bed and snagged the orange bottle off my nightstand. I popped a bitter steroid pill onto my tongue and chased it with half a bottle of water. Hissing, I finished the water because that disgusting taste lingered. I sighed and stared at the ceiling while my heart thudded, working overtime the same way it had been for days. My face felt too hot and the sting on my hand hurt like a bitch, still swollen even though someone without an allergy probably wouldn’t even remember having gotten stung by this point.
My eyesburned.
I’d barely been sleeping. The steroids I needed to keep my body from murdering me off were making me feel like I was having a low-grade, never-endingfucking annoyingpanic attack—but I would’ve been pissed off about the text on my phone even without all that happening.
It was just that irritating.
I read the words again for the thousandth time.
Coach Hill: You’re benched. Rest. Rémi won’t clear you until you’re off those meds. You can sit with me tomorrow afternoon during the game.
I glared at the3:17 a.m.in the corner of my phone screen. I was exhausted to the point that even my hair follicles felt tingly and weird, but my eyes wouldn’t shut. I closed them and they sprang open again. You would think the Benadryl I was taking every six hours would’ve knocked my ass out.
But no.
Nothing felt right.
What if this was it?
What if this was the end of my hockey career?
